Acta Sanctorum
by Silence Instead
Summary: “Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after justice: for they shall have their fill.”
1. The Morning After

**Murphy McManus  
_August 17, 11:34am  
Deer Island_**

Everything felt hazy when he woke up, with bright sunlight glaring in his eyes and the thick taste of blood in his mouth. It was like a vignette, as if someone had blurred the edges of his senses and left him with only the distant feeling that he was somewhere he shouldn't be. Lying quite still and staring up at the ceaseless blue of the sky, he came slowly to the realisation that he was in a considerable amount of pain. It started out as only an awareness of some vague and unimportant ache pulsing in his head, but it gradually deepened to a fierce ache that burned like dull embers in all of his muscles. He knew that it would flare from cinders into an inferno if he tried to move, so he stayed flat on his back instead, and waited with surprising patience for the rest of his watered-down senses to return to him.

It was hearing that came to him first; the soothing rush of the surf racing up on to dry land, the urgent cries of countless gulls somewhere outside his immediate peripheries. This was followed swiftly by his sense of smell, which picked up first on the sharp aroma of seaweed and then on the sourness of vomit.

_How much did I drink last night?_

When he noticed that his stomach was churning, he tried to groan. The sound that he produced was closer to a dry mewl than anything else, but it bought all his feeling back in an overwhelming rush and he twisted on to his side as dry retches wrung his stomach. His vision went grey for a long moment after he spat out a pitiful trickle of bile and saliva, and then it cleared into black starbursts that finally gave way to the excruciating clarity that always came with his hangovers.

Wiping a hand hurriedly across his mouth, he felt crusted blood and vomit and groaned again. This time the sound was a little stronger, if not any healthier, lending him the motivation to sit up and hunch over his bent knees. He pressed the balls of his hands into his temples in a futile attempt to force out the barbed lances of unadulterated _agony_ twisting there, and heaved the kind of sigh that can only ever be expelled by the lungs of an Irishman after a night spent drinking far more than is healthy.

After a long moment, he looked up to inspect his wider surroundings, and was struck immediately by a bizarre sense of _I don't think we're in Kansas any more, Toto_; for a second he feared he'd wandered clean out of Boston. He felt fluttery panic rise up in his chest, and then realised where he was and forced his mounting fear right back down into the pit of his stomach, where it sloshed around unpleasantly with the rest of his gorge. Deer Island… he was on Deer Island.

A cool breeze blew in, urgently reminding him that he was sat shirtless, in jeans that were stiff with dried seawater. Staring out across the vast blue-greyness of the Atlantic, he slowly pieced together a fragmented recollection of how he'd wound up here.


	2. The Night Before

**Connor McManus  
**_**August 17, 1:09am  
Long Wharf**_

Murphy was up to his waist in seawater by the time Connor reached the little beach sloping away from Long Wharf. The idiot seemed to have finally remembered that it was a six mile swim to Deer Island, which was a feat he would've had considerable difficulty with even if he hadn't been completely hammered on Guinness and cheap vodka.

Staggering to an uncertain halt that left him up to his knees in water himself, Connor retreated a little way up the beach and yelled to his brother, foam still lapping at his sodden shoes.

"What the fuck're you playin' at, Murph? Get out of the damn water!"

"Why?" Murphy yelled back over his shoulder, as the wind stirred in his hair and waves reared up around him.

"You're gonna fuckin' drown, that's why!" Connor yelled back, stumbling on the loose stones underfoot and faltering back down into knee-deep water again. He uttered a high-pitched curse in surprise as cold water filled his shoes.

"Ah, don't be such a pussy!" Murphy returned confidently. No sooner than he had closed his mouth, a wave caught him full in the chest and sent him reeling backwards, arms pinwheeling comically as he tried to keep his balance. Under normal circumstances that might've been enough to send Connor out into the cold water to drag his retarded brother back to shore, but there was still enough beer in him that, instead of rushing to help, he doubled over and burst into helpless gales of laughter.

"You look fuckin' ridiculous," he gasped when he could speak, tears springing up in the corners of his eyes. The laughter subsided almost as quickly as it had come on, but he was cackling at the memory again a second later.

"How 'bout you get a look at yourself, huh?" Murphy challenged from where he stood, now with his back to the harbour.

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?" Connor demanded, laughter up suddenly as his back straightened and his expression darkened.

"You're scared to come in, aren'tcha?"

"No I'm fuckin' not," he countered, which was a blatant lie and one that he hoped he wouldn't have to back up.

"Is that so?" Murphy asked, spreading his arms now in a gesture that was at once inviting and mocking. "Connor McManus, come on down!" he slurred, lurching forward unsteadily with the motion of the waves still pushing occasionally into his back.

"I'm not comin' down anywhere, Murph; you come on _up_."

"Alright," Murphy replied, "I will."

Revelling in a surprisingly easy success, Connor didn't register the fact that Murphy was picking up speed as he sloshed closer until it was just a little too late. His brother burst out of the water like Jaws, and tackled him to the ground just as he was about to leap out of the way. They grappled in the surf for a while, but Murphy had the obvious advantage and Connor ended up on his back in shallow water, hands pinned above his head and hips straddled firmly in spite of his protests.

"Happy?" Murphy demanded breathlessly, eyes alive and dancing with mirth. Salty water sprayed from his lips as he spoke, dripping down from his hair and the tip of his nose to land in cold drops on Connor's face. "I'm out of the water."

"Actually, you're not," Connor pointed out, grinning triumphantly.

"Ah, whatever. I'm more out of the water'n you."

There was no arguing with that, but damned if Connor wasn't going to try. His mouth moved wordlessly as he searched for a biting comeback, but nothing occurred to him. Fortunately, he was blessedly spared the need to say anything, as Murphy leaned down and silenced him with a clumsy kiss that tasted like saltwater and vodka.

They only ever got this intimate when they were drunk, and Connor was never entirely comfortable with it… but there was some dark and secret part of him that craved this kind of affection from his brother, so he let it happen. It was sin and penance rolled up neatly into one package, and Connor wondered, as he returned the kiss, if his brother saw it the same way.

Murphy muttered something inaudible into Connor's mouth, then broke the kiss and released his arms.

"Know what I could do with? Another pint," he said, leaning back so he was sat upright and more or less in Connor's lap.

"Y'got too much blood in yer alcohol system?" Connor asked, sitting up with some difficultly and leaning his head against Murphy's chest.

"Aye, somethin' like that," his twin agreed with a breath of laughter as he groaned his way up to his feet, and slogged heavily up the beach, clothes made heavy by the weight of the water they'd soaked up.

Connor rolled over laboriously, and then staggered to his feet and lunged after his brother. The damp in his own clothes made him shiver so his teeth chattered noisily in his skull, making him think dimly of a typewriter—or maybe the rattle of automatic gunfire.

"Catch fuckin' pneumonia like this," he muttered grimly.

* * *

Just for the record, I've never actually been anywhere near Boston, so I'm pretty much altering the geography to suit my needs. I believe it's called artistic license. xD In other news, I hope everyone who celebrates it had a good Christmas - and remember, feedback makes the heart grow fonder, or something like that. ;)


End file.
